Trading Demons
by Fantastic Pants
Summary: Try as he might to fight it, Major Lee Adama is still a good boy. But he's most definitely not too good. Set after 'The Son Also Rises'. [RomoLee]


_**Trading Demons**_

He's easy. Too easy.

Trusting. Damaged. Needy.

So eager to tie himself to the second most hated man in the fleet, quite possibly making him third in that most honorable chain, by privilege of mere association.

One fact is indisputable.

Try as he might to fight it, Major Lee Adama is still a good boy.

But he's most definitely not _too_ good.

Painted in broad strokes of daddy issues, with a touch of trauma and a dash of loss – yet still he is as close to a blank slate as it gets, subconsciously _begging _to be written on.

He's a human distress beacon, and all I'm doing is answering the call.

I doubt that his daddy issue likes the notion of me having influence over his boy. A 'corrupting' influence, I imagine is how he titles it. Definitely his style.

Corruption. Never been too fond of that word. It implies an inbuilt purity - some strange and exotic beast from a long-lost mythology. Nothing touched by humanity can ever hope to possess it. Not even the machines. Not even the pretty, idealistic, soul-torn major.

So it's not corruption then. A shift in perspective, maybe. And shifting those – that's an art form. One I'm more than adept at.

There is, contrary to popular opinion, a reason for all this, and it's far from 'corrupt'.

Almost noble, actually.

Not exactly the traditional, dictionary-approved definition of noble, perhaps. And certainly not the kind that the new nobility would appreciate.

Well, can't please everyone.

Never much cared to.

The fame, the glory.

They're good reasons, _reasonable _reasons.

But they're not _my_ reasons.

My reasons are mine alone.

_His_ reasons, however, couldn't be more transparent if they were framed in sparkling crystal.

Crystal isn't too far from his appearance, as he turns up to escort me out of the infirmary.

Give him a light push, and he'll shatter into a thousand tiny pieces.

It's an optical illusion, of course - he's not that fragile. Strong, even.

But only as strong as those around him. Strong _for_ them. A beautiful paradox.

And paradoxes – they're fragile by nature.

Another paradox, that.

There's a shift in his posture, another scribed on his face. So he's made a choice.

The questioning choice. The insubordinate choice.

The obvious choice.

Still conflicted, naturally. Probably never will cease to be. He came born with conflict, little Adama, and the only peace he's ever likely to get will be either short-lived, or come in a final, fatal form.

Bleak, maybe, but at least he's not another mindless drone.

That alone separates him from the herd. And it's a fact he pays dearly for.

Humanity never needed machines. It was happily turning into one on its own. Still is, only a far different, more feral breed of machine.

Tragically, I don't have the build of a cog. More of a defect, some would say.

Then again, if a reputation of kindness was what I'd been looking for, I would have had more luck in a different line of work. Like a serial killer. Or a Cylon.

I slip into my jacket, put the shades on. It's all slightly on the redundant side, considering how temporary that arrangement is likely to be, unless I'm entirely off the track about him.

Which I doubt.

Next, I take a few minutes to get acquainted with the cane- not as strict a necessity as I'd like them to believe, but not a bad addition to my arsenal, overall. Does come with its certain stylistic nuance, not to mention the sympathy vote.

Wonderful thing, sympathy. Too bad I had to get blown up to earn myself a piece of it.

The good major waits by the sickbay's entrance, watching. Attempting blankness of expression, he ends up with a stormy undercurrent of near-anxiousness.

Cute.

Preparations over and done with, I gesture to him with a tilt of the head, and we walk out.

Well, he walks. I limp gracefully. Maybe a tad theatrically.

I take a moment to assess the morality of the situation.

The conclusion is as obvious as it is imminent.

The major follows me like a dog already. Might as well start learning some new tricks.

He's drunk. Not too drunk. Just drunk enough.

His walk is tense, an overstatement of dutifulness that steadily approaches a caricature. He doesn't speak – tries to, a few times, but stops himself at the last second. Not many lines to read between.

Doesn't get much more blatant than that.

Intentions shining off him like a bad radiation leak, and he doesn't even know it.

Always amazes me how blissfully unaware people can be. Some broken link in evolution, must be. Or the Gods' way of having a bit of less-than-harmless fun.

I maintain the silence, no words required. Their absence plays to my advantage.

We arrive at my quarters, and his hesitation shows for a fractured second, hovering by the door. Of course, this doesn't stop him from coming inside.

The door closes behind us.

Now it's just down to counting moments.

I don't need to do anything. Just wait.

The ever-awkward 'so…' is left unsaid, its presence manifesting without invitation.

He's standing too close, lips pressed together, as if he's preparing a speech, or about to throw a tantrum.

Like on cue, his mouth crashes into mine.

I do enjoy being right, no matter how often and how consistently that happens to occur – does tend to ruin the element of surprise, but it's a compromise I manage to live with, somehow.

At times, being right comes with added bonuses.

Every motion of his is urgent, racing towards some mysterious conclusion. Trying to keep one step ahead of himself. Do anything _but_ think.

Oh well. I suppose I'll have to do the thinking for the both of us.

For instance, there is the small matter of potential surveillance.

I place my hand on his chest, drawing him to a gradual halt.

His attempt at composing an air of nonchalance is a matter I'd rather not comment on, to spare at least some of his dignity.

"You _are_ aware of our personal live audience?"

Eyes narrowed, he breathes out, caught in a turbulence of strained defiance, "Does it look like I give a flying frak?"

I manage to keep to a wry smile what by all rights should've been a laugh at this adolescent charade.

He always gives a frak, flying or otherwise. You don't have to be a great expert on human nature to see that.

But he needs his dose of rebellious play pretend, and I'm not the one to deprive him of it.

"And what about your lovely wife?"

He doesn't answer, predictably enough. It's a largely irrelevant question - we both know it - but protocol dictates I get it out of the way.

That, and it's another button of his I get to push. It's a compulsion, button pushing. A hobby. Another one of those pesky demons that make us who we are.

Also the reason I customarily walked around with a bloody nose as a kid.

I've gotten a bit smarter since then. Bit smoother. But still can't let the buttons go unpushed. That'd be practically criminal negligence on my part.

His face changes, closes in on itself. Hurt. Momentarily haunted. The latest fashion. Doesn't look half-bad on him, I have to admit.

A theater of heartbreak and alcohol is playing out in his eyes, all reflective and glossy.

Ridiculously lyrical even when committing adultery, and clearly not for the first time, either.

When I start to think he's gotten stuck in there – lights are on but no one's home – he moves in again.

He starts slower this time, willing himself into deliberateness.

This is harder for him, and I do appreciate the effort, devoid of meaning as it may be.

He brings his hand to my face; carefully traces the fresh cut in my cheek – might scar, or so they inform me. Not too dreadful a catastrophe. In fact, the more visual drama, the better.

Funny – my wounds, but he's the one that looks injured.

I don't need further encouragement. He sure _seems_ certain, and that's good enough for me.

A simple brush of lips takes an evolutionary leap, introducing tongue and a merge of breath, turning shallow on both sides.

Voice of experience tells me that this is where we need to start eliminating articles of clothing if this is to go anywhere.

My sunglasses are the first victim, taking temporary refuge on the surface of the cabinet.

"You look better without them," he assesses, employing a rather blunt brand of pointedness.

How sweet.

"You think so?"

"Makes you look more real."

The man has very limited understanding of subtlety.

"Yes, well," I decide it's time to cut off this exchange of endearing banalities. "They serve their purpose."

Next in line in the matter of clothing elimination is my jacket – didn't I say it'd be redundant? This creates a break in the proceedings, more prolonged than one would like, due to newly introduced physical constraints.

He doesn't move, standing at what I can only describe as near-attention. Attempting to stifle his leftover hesitance.

Something more than vaguely comical about the entire ordeal.

Impatience does finally break through to him, and he closes the gap, his hand finding an entry point into my shirt. The sudden contact, skin on skin, begins as startlingly cold, but heats up exponentially, helpfully triggered by friction.

One careless step backward causes a collision with the bed, and I'm warmly welcomed into the arms of sharp, blinding pain.

It's stunning just to the right degree, enough for me to not be entirely aware of whatever colorful word I employ to describe this wonderful new sensation, if I actually manage something borderline coherent. On the edge of my consciousness, I catch the major's voice, assumingly inquiring regarding my welfare.

The whiteness of the pain fades fairly quickly, revealing Lee Adama's face, having recently transformed into a pale sheet of concern.

I'm touched.

And maybe a touch disturbed.

Slow, it seems, is the only route to be taking, and that's hardly in the best interest of either party involved.

Slowness implies intimacy. Intimacy implies – well, an impressive amount of implications, really, neither of which is particularly appealing under the circumstances.

Let's just hope we're mature enough to ignore such unwanted implications.

Correction – I know _I am_, so let's hope he'll be less juvenile about this than about certain other matters.

"Go easy, Major," I instruct him, cracking a smile so that he doesn't suffer a guilt-induced heart attack. "Ideally, you're supposed to be protecting me, not putting me back in the infirmary."

"Sorry." He gets that look on his face. What's the word there? Sheepish. Interesting connotation. Sheep Lee, so intent on dyeing his wool black. "You really think this is the proper occasion to be calling me Major?"

I raise my brow.

"Perfect occasion, Major."

He snorts.

The bed is strictly utilitarian, not entirely made for the occasion.

Neither, I must say, are we.

He climbs into the bed, trying to find a position that doesn't involve either of us ending up on the floor. It's quite the challenge.

A fleeting, curious contemplation wanders by.

In case there is in fact a little bird listening in - am I going to earn my own personal airlocking session for this?

Plenty of worse crimes to get airlocked for than frakking the Admiral's son, but still, it'd be unfortunate.

The thought serves more as passing amusement than effective deterrent, and it vaporizes entirely as he reaches for my belt buckle, impressively goal oriented all of the sudden.

It strikes me that I'm the only one losing in the clothing department so far, and that's a state of affairs that need to be remedied.

I go for his shirt – a decision I soon come to regret.

Whoever designed this uniform must have been a deranged, ingenious sadist.

Either that or my motor skills have been severely hampered by my bombing incident.

The shirt does come off eventually, after what I find to be a wholesomely exaggerated effort on my part.

I allow myself a moment to enjoy the view.

Young Apollo, King of the Pilots, is built like a – alright, not going in that direction; can't bring myself to be quite _that_ tacky.

But let's just say that whatever flaws he may possess, they're definitely located outside of the physical realm.

Which leaves all the more room for an inner demon playground, currently reflected bright and clear in his eyes, colored by intent I would've termed as dangerous if I hadn't known him better.

Law is all well and good, but sometimes, alternative exorcism techniques can come in handy.

His knee digs into my side, a mild irritation on the large scale of things.

He starts to work on the buttons on my shirt – it's a vigorous effort, makes me wonder if he's trying to take revenge on me for the one I stole from his father. They all survive it, miraculously. Taking the shirt off entirely doesn't seem a necessity, so I leave it open to possibilities.

Through astute use of his mouth, he trails a warm, humid line from my neck, across my chest – making the mandatory nipple stop - and down my stomach.

I run my fingers through his hair, offering what can't really be considered a vast contribution overall, but I do believe the last few days have merited me at least _some_ sloth rights.

Apparently becoming eager for something more substantial, he tugs my pants down to my knees, glancing up to meet my gaze.

I figure this is the perfect timeslot to lay some ground rules and safety guidelines.

"If you're plannin' on biting, warn first."

He tilts his head sideways and frowns, showcasing a state of intense confusion.

Not the biting type, then.

Guess you can't have everything.

In the course of the next few minutes, I swiftly come to reassess my evaluation of Lee as a good boy.

Good boys shouldn't be doing things like _that_ with their tongues.

Not that I'm complaining. Far from it.

A little intrigued, however.

Can't help it, curiosity comes naturally in times like this, doubtlessly to the cat's dismay.

Where is that damn creature hiding out, anyway?

Never mind, probably busy planting bombs somewhere.

The issue at hand – and other places, technically speaking - is one Lee Adama.

Not part of the herd. No. He's no sheep.

He's a self-appointed sacrificial lamb.

Can't judge, really. I'd gladly give my life for something I believe in. I just don't believe in much.

Except, well, the whole truth and justice business, of course.

But he… He's searching for something. Something inappropriately abstract. Escape, absolution, _himself_.

Good luck with that.

Thing is, I'm looking for something, too.

The only difference is that my goals aren't refugees from a land full of fairy princesses and castles that float in mid-air.

Or so I'd like to think. Unfortunately, it's a great deal easier to read others than it is yourself.

Self-deception also comes harder. Especially in cases this self-evident.

I'm using him.

Not a huge revelation. Everybody uses everybody. Whole universe is a neverending circle of use and abuse. Fundamental truth.

He's using me just as much as I him.

He needs someone to give him a direction. A future. A bridge to jump off.

What I need is-

Is -

Uh.

Threads of thought begin to unravel at an alarming speed, met with a melting heat and erratic, racing breathing, which, as I belatedly realize, belongs to me.

"Gods, Lee-"

And that's when he stops, coming up to meet my gaze – he's not in focus, not even remotely. He is, however, wearing a small, teasing, frakking _condescending_ smile.

"So it's Lee now?"

"It can be frakkin' _Aphrodite on a stick_ for all I care, just-" I try to keep the rising tide of desperation concealed, "do something."

"Something?" he questions with an unbearable innocence, still with that damn grin.

Wonderful. Perfect, _perfect_ timing to be playing dumb.

"What do you want, Major?" my voice comes out hoarse, untamed, "A pretty please, sugar on top?"

"That'd be nice."

So he's decided to reconnect with his inner bastard.

Good thing I'm more than at peace with mine. I'd almost call it harmonic fusion.

"Well, you're not gettin' it."

"Why not?"

"_Because_," word pacing is becoming an issue, "you want this," as is normal breathing, "as much as I do." Actually, everything is unusually problematic, "More, probably." I have to swallow before proceeding, "That means, no negotiations, and no-"

He responds by shutting his eyes in exasperation.

"Can you at least shut up?"

On occasion.

"I can."

He resumes his honorable duties, leaving me free to discard mental function in favor of more visceral ones.

We all have needs.

I close my eyes and embrace mine.

Perfect blankness.

Some time passes, can't bring myself to care.

It takes me a while to register much of anything, his continued presence included.

He's looking at me expectantly.

"What? You want something?"

See, I can play dumb too.

I emphasize the question by letting my fingers stroll absent-mindedly across his lower back, trailing through gathered sweat.

Skin flushed, mouth half open, eyes half shut.

I would say that's a yes.

I grin.

"Then get your pants outta my way, Major."

Remarkably efficient at following orders, he starts by removing his boots, then tackling the matter of the troublesome pants, which he ends up tossing onto a nearby chair. Not prepared to settle for half-way. Gotta admire the dedication.

More so, gotta admire the visage of a stark naked Lee Adama sitting on the corner of my bed.

Perks of the profession.

He resettles on top of me, and I establish a grip on his hip, running my hand up his inner thigh with deliberate slowness. It draws a choppy intake of breath from him as I reach the intended target.

I take that as a prompt to get started.

I find a rhythm that suits him soon enough.

He becomes trapped in a trance of memories, biting on his lower lip. He's used to something different, _yearning _for it

I use my free hand to give his thigh a light slap, jolting him back to reality.

"Lee. I'm _right here_."

It might be too steep a requirement, but I didn't sign up for a threesome with a ghost.

He blinks. Nods. Refocuses. Still not here.

There is understanding, at least.

Which is more than you can usually get these days.

There's little to be done but help him to the finish line.

Finally, he emits a choked, broken sound. Almost a sob, if you look for it.

After a hovering pause, he makes a crash landing on top of me. Make that _crush_ landing.

I let him stay that way for a minute or two. That ought to be enough.

The clock runs out.

"You're not exactly featherweight, Major. Think you can lend me some breathing space?"

He mumbles something out, eventually complying and scrambling up. Somehow covering the three steps' worth a trip over to the couch, he collapses on top of it.

I spend the next minutes listening to an echo of heavy breathing, gradually growing fainter as if fading into the distance.

I turn my head in his direction, catching him staring upwards vacantly. Maybe he's on a quest to find Earth up there on the ceiling.

From this angle, he looks like a lost little boy. He keeps this up any longer and I might pull a heartstring here.

He breathes in, breathes out. It's quiet – so quiet, but the words come out with sharp edges, absolute and definitive.

"She's dead."

I let it hang, drawn out in artificial, recycled air.

It needed to be said.

I release a long breath.

"That she is."

We're not talking about the same woman, but it doesn't matter.

His special girl. My special girl.

Dead is dead.

Frak.

Not an hour into our joint predicament, and we're already dangling on a thread of sentimentality.

Just what I needed.

I know _moments_, and this one of those where you're supposed to insert something meaningful.

And something meaningful _means_ a lie. Or, at the very least, a highly questionable, alternative variation of truth.

Right now, I don't have the will or energy to find a suitable one.

The moment is rudely interrupted by the sudden appearance of the cat, making its presence known by casually jumping onto the major's chest. Having achieved its immediate goal, it curls up and goes to sleep.

Stunned silence ensues.

Lee's the first to break it, inciting a disbelieving chuckle.

This isn't as funny as it is purely, wholesomely absurd.

It catches on- infectious, cataclysmic, tear-inspiring belly laughter.

Haven't helped myself to one of those in some time now.

Second time I actually owe a dept of gratitude to the frakking cat.

Once the laughter dies out, it's safe to go back to business.

"So you'll be helpin' me with the case, then?"

It's all but rhetorical, but he offers a clipped response nonetheless, "Yeah."

"Good." I sit up. Fight the momentary dizziness. Pull my pants up to a slightly more proper position.

Before reclaiming my glasses, I land a pat on his thigh, "Then we have some work ahead of us."

This prompts a lift of the brow, followed by an incredulous, "Now?"

"Oh, I'm so sorry. You wanted to cuddle?"

He seems too taken aback to give a proper response.

"Sing serenades? Recite poetry to the gentle glimmer of candlelight?"

I'm a romantic at heart. Really. I wouldn't mind.

He finally rewards me with a frozen, hare glare, putting additional strain on his jaw.

Rather charming, in a cute if slightly pathetic sort of way.

"No?" No comment. "Well then, we've got a notorious lowlife to represent, impossible odds to face, and the trial of the century to win. Not to mention a good few dozen illegible files to go through. You'll _forgive_ me for interfering with your afterglow."

He's stopped listening at some point, turning over to the eye-rolling section of his behavioral repertoire.

That's probably for the best.

"How about a shower first?" he suggests.

"Hmm," I take this into consideration. "That might be a good idea."

He sends a questioning look at the furry invader still occupying a strategic position on his chest.

I prepare my most authoritative tone.

"_Lance._"

The cat remains perfectly motionless.

What a shock.

The day the cat actually listens to a word I say, I'll be expecting an imminent apocalypse.

Meanwhile, I'm forced to resort to physical coercion, lifting the feline disaster off the outmaneuvered major and sending it on its merry and doubtlessly conspiratorial way.

Cat-free, he awkwardly slips back into his uniform, becoming soldier-boy once again.

Real shame, that.

It's getting awfully quiet again, and that means there's an upcoming question on the horizon.

"Why are you doing this?"

And there it is.

"What?"

"Defending Baltar." Along with the uniform, he's also changed back into his normally clipped tone. "Why?"

I go by the safe and tried routine.

"Why are _you_?"

Of course, I know the answer to _that_, and he knows that I know.

"Can you give an answer," he pauses, his face radiant with determination and truth-seeking and other such exceedingly irritating things, "for once?"

No problem.

"I'm on a mission from the Gods."

Well, it's _an_ answer.

"That's very funny."

"What do you _want _to hear?"

"How about the truth?" He's reaching out, not _really_ expecting me to provide it.

Perhaps he hopes his vulnerability will catch on, or the need for simplification.

That's too optimistic on his part, I'm afraid.

I sigh. "That's an advance question, Major, and this is a beginner's course."

His smile stops just short of bitter irony. He concedes with a nod. "Right."

With that, he turns around, heading for the door.

He's not stupid. He can't still believe I haven't stolen from him.

I owe him something in return. A warning, maybe.

"It won't help you," I call after him, "with your demons."

He stops, looks over his shoulder. Takes a second or two before answering, simultaneously concrete and distracted, "I know."

Not stupid at all.

But so very damaged.

Desperate, too. Trying to make all the wrong choices at once, just so he won't have to face _one_.

He might hate me once it's all over. Then again, might not.

Therein lays the beauty of a wild card.

The door shuts after him, hermetically sealing me from the rest of the world.

If only.

There is a problem with easy. This kind of easy, at any rate.

It's the backlash, crawling under your skin. Tugging the past along for the ride.

I'm getting to him, sure. But is he starting to get to me?

Doubtful.

Do I _want _him to?

So maybe easy isn't quite as easy after all.

Whoever cares the most, wins.

Don't think the old bastard had this exact situation in mind, though. I can only imagine the dazzling grave acrobatics he'd perform if he knew about this interesting arrangement I have with his grandson.

So it's different here.

Here it works in reverse.

We both care a bit more than we'd like to.

Law & Mind, the Psychology of Legal Practice, an Extended Edition, by Romo Lampkin.

Whoever cares the most, is frakked.

And nobody ever wins.


End file.
